


Neighbourly Perspective

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV)
Genre: Prompt Fic, character perspective, make that multiple characters perspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-26 00:01:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7552306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a bit of a mixed blessing. Written for JWP #21: 21 Song Salute: Choose one of the following songs/song titles to inspire your story today. I chose "Just around the corner," about which I know nothing except the title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Universe: Granada (could just as easily be ACD, but who can resist those sets?)
> 
> Warnings: Random third person narrator. And absolutely no beta. This was written in a complete rush. You have been warned.

It’s a bit of a mixed blessing, workin’ or livin’ just around the corner from 221B Baker Street. Everyone knows who lives there, and everyone knows someone who knows someone who’s actually consulted with Mr Holmes, although no-one seems to admit doing so themselves. But everyone knows he’s willing to take cases from great and humble alike, and he’s a clever gent, that’s certain. His friend, Doctor Watson, might not be quite as sharp, but he’s a kind man. It’s convenient to have a doctor in the neighbourhood, particularly one who makes no matter about calls at all hours, and who is generally understanding about your ability (or lack thereof) to immediately pay his fee.  
  
He attracts all sorts to the neighbourhood, does the detective. Seems as if there’s twice as many street Arabs running about as in other parts of London, but they’re generally less troublesome than most, so that balances it out a bit. His clients are all sorts, as I’ve said, but then there are the others. People come from all over just to see the place, it seems – and not just one or two, or occasionally, but frequently. That’s good for business, that is. They buy all sorts of things as an excuse for being there.  
  
Less good are the dodgy sorts that occasionally try and cause trouble, to catch him out. There’ve been arson attempts, and ruffian gangs attacking, and runaway wagons, stabbings, a shooting or two, and at least three different ladies pretending to faint in the street. (I don’t understand the purpose behind those last, myself.)  
  
And then there’s the man himself. He likes disguises. You can never be quite sure if the old gent, or the odd handyman, or the starched-up widow is actually him, pursuing his own ends. It makes for a bit of difficulty when you’ve a troublesome customer, not being sure that it mightn’t be Mr Holmes. He’s got an odd sense of humour, you see, and you’d better believe you don’t want to offend him.  
  
There is one undoubted benefit of being around the corner, at least for one of us. My wife’s brother owns the tobacconist shop just up the way. He _never_ lacks for business, and his shop turns a hefty profit every single quarter.


	2. Smokescreen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tobacconist on Oxford Street has a different perspective. Written for the following two amnesty prompts:  
> \- That's All Folks: Let the end be the beginning (or the entirety) of today's entry.  
> \- Welcome to the neighbourhood: Outsider fic from the POV of someone else living near 221 Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OC narrator. And absolutely no beta. This was written in a complete rush. You have been warned.

When my uncle retired, I took over the tobacconist business he’d started. He’d brought me up in the trade, and a quiet, respectable, prosperous business it was, there on Oxford Street.  
  
My uncle had no children of his own, so he was glad enough to take one of his brother’s children on as his ward and eventual heir, even though we lived far away in Antigua and he’d never met any of us.  
  
My poor father faced a difficult decision. He had many children, oh yes. But of the ten of us, only two were boys. My oldest brother was already fully apprenticed in my father’s tobacco-growing business, and engaged besides. He had no interest in it. And my other brother – Henry, my twin – was frail and tubercular. We knew, already, that he would probably not survive the long journey to London, much less thrive there in the damp, murky air. Any chance he had to live at all (and I knew in my heart that he would _not_ live to grow up, no matter how dear he was to me and how much I wished it) required staying in Antigua, and yet the family could not afford to pass up this chance.  
  
“Let me go with Henry,” I told my father. “I can look after him, and my uncle’s household too. I’m sure a bachelor establishment could use the help.”  
  
My father brightened, then sighed. “You’re hardly more than a girl, Henrietta, and that’s a heavy burden to place on your shoulders. But you’re sensible, and you’re right too.” He shook his head. “If only Henry had half your strength and determination…”  
  
 _If only you had been a boy,_ he meant. I often thought so too. For I felt a boy, far more than I felt myself a girl. And there were opportunities for boys and men, while being a girl was a life sentence to a restricted, dominated world, one I wanted no part of.  
  
So it was decided that we would both go to London, and my fate decided too. My brother and I embarked on the journey unaccompanied, for none could be spared to come with us. Henry and I made our own plans, took our own precautions. He knew the heart of me, the truth of me, as no other ever had or ever will. The captain was quite surprised to learn that he had two brothers, rather than a brother and sister, in his charge; but one look at poor Henry’s pallid face and constant use of his handkerchief to stifle his slight cough, and he thought he understood well enough.  
  
He did, too, at least in one part. My poor Henry did not survive the journey. His body was buried at sea. I alone was left to greet my uncle with the incredible news that my ‘sister Henrietta’ had not lived, but that the sea air had done wonders for my own health.  I was determined to be a credit to both my uncle for his generosity in taking me in, and my dear late sister, in honour of her memory.  
  
My uncle never guessed my secret. He was a good man, but a confirmed bachelor who knew nothing of children and was more than happy to see that ‘Henry’, as I called myself, was so self-sufficient. My distant family must have wondered, but they too never questioned the strange turn of fate. Even my youngest sister Jane, who wound up marrying a friend of my oldest brother a decade after I left and relocating to London to help run a shop not two blocks away, ever guessed.  
  
I lived as a boy, and then as a young man. My uncle’s health diminished, and he turned the business over to me in favour of retirement to a seaside cottage. The business continued on much as it had, with no one the wiser.  
  
Not until the day a new customer came into the shop. Mr Holmes was quiet, not wealthy, but particular about his blend, wanting the strongest smoke his limited purse would allow. I noticed my shop-boy go back and forth several times, bringing out samples from various drawers, and stepped in to offer my expertise. A discerning customer who appreciated good tobacco was always welcome.  
  
Mr Holmes greeted my suggestion with approval, but then stopped and glanced at me, raking me up and down with a single bright-eyed, keen look that seemed to take in _everything_ about me, even what I hid from the world. I told myself I was being absurd, even while blessing the side-effect of the smoke that had deepened my voice to something far lower and rougher than any woman would have. “Would you prefer to try something else?”  
  
“No,” Mr Holmes said at once. “This blend is quite satisfactory. I thank you for the recommendation. Your expertise is notable.”  
  
That is all he said, then or ever. He became one of my most reliable customers, and his friend Doctor Watson too. Others came to my shop, for both men recommended my establishment often, and as their fame grew, so too did the number of people coming to buy where they bought.  
  
Given his reputation, I have no doubt that Mr Holmes guessed my secret at that first meeting, that I was not born to the gender I was meant to live as. That he never said anything, and that it apparently made no difference to him, is all the proof I ever needed to know that he was, and is, just as extraordinary – and worthy – as his reputation paints him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted August 7, 2016

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 21, 2016


End file.
